


Colors

by PunsandPoses



Series: Various Music [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: "The Outsiders" References and Basis, Artist Dean, Endverse! Castiel (ish), John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsandPoses/pseuds/PunsandPoses
Summary: Dean Winchester has never had much. He's a painter, living alone in Lebanon, Kansas, in an underground bunker no one knows or cares about. His little brother left him years ago, and his father hates him. Castiel pushes into his life, with his blue tipped hair and a hate-everyone attitude. He too had been left. Maybe they can rebuild. But as people walk in from the past, things get rough.





	Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone's done something Artist! Dean and Endverse! Cas, but this my spin on it. There are "the Outsiders" sort of references and basis for things like "rumbles" and such, but they are few. Also, Phin's name came from the nickname of the writer of "Casey at the Bat".

_You're dripping like a saturated sunrise, you're spilling like an overflowing sink...._  

Dean hummed the lyrics, their tune familiar. He had never been much of a fan of electronica, thinking it catered to mainstream media. He stared at his canvas. Blue splashed across a stormy sea, lending a realistic tune to the music. 

_And I'm covered in the colors, pulled apart at the seams, and it's blue...._

On impulse, he put two gray eyes in the midst of a cloud, and he painted a hand reaching down, pulling up a man. Demons were painted, their faces those of normal people, but with pure black eyes. 

He walked away from the canvas, thinking to finish it later. He shut off the radio, and the music ceased. 

He was alone, as usual. Nobody knew or cared that he lived in an underground bunker, where devil's traps reigned free and symbols of protection were painted on the walls. No one knew or cared that he lived alone, only venturing out to buy food and paint supplies. 

He sighed. Depressing thoughts never were well with him, and they always sent him careening down a path he did not want to take. A reminder of the past and how it affected him. 

He washed his hands, watching the water turn different colors as it revealed each new layer of color. Red, peach, blue, purple, gray. The colors washed away, and his pale skin was revealed.

He walked to the Impala, swinging his keys and singing Oasis off-key. "I'm free to be whatever, whatever I'll choose. And I'll sing the blues if I want, I'm free to say whatever, whatever I like!" 

Of course, the radio never played "Whatever", and Dean was stuck with "The Wall". He quickly changed the radio station and blasted Metallica so loud he could feel the seat rumbling. 

He rolled down his window, watching the world go by at 55 miles per hour. Upon arriving at the grocery store, his intended target, he did his thing. He grabbed "Sympathy for the Devil" and rolled down all the windows. He saw a little old woman shout at him for his "devil's music", and he screamed right back.

"JUST CALL ME LUCIFER!" He yelled, laughing as she waved her cane at him. Lebanon was full of good Christian people, and anybody could get on their nerves. It was honestly too easy.

He parked the Impala and got out. Turning around, he found himself face-to-face with the little old woman, who decided that, he, as a sinner, needed a good old-fashioned lecture to get his head on straight.

"Young man," she started, "do you know what our great God has done for us? What Jesus has done?" She waved a hand around, her white hair flying from its bun. "He has given us Hope, and you, young man, have been given love and a great Destiny, and what do you do with it?"

He assumed she was asking him and stated, "He gave us free will for a reason, didn't He?" 

She smacked his ankles with her cane. "Yes! But He is our Creator, our Divine Savior!" She continued yelling as he walked away, and he scoffed. 

Since the grocery store was full of the aforementioned "good Christian people", everyone was full of joy for God and wished everyone they met a happy day. If Dean was lucky, he could grab five bottles of Jack Daniels and all the food he needed without a "good day, sir". 

The only people he could stand in Lebanon were the cashiers, too hurried to give a happy, loving reply. 

He grabbed two bottles of alcohol, and upon noticing a new album by some rock band, grabbed a CD. He checked the label.  _Threat to Survival._ He tossed it into his cart, putting it with the other unreasonable purchases, like that extra large pie he  _should absolutely not_ buy. 

The cashier looked like she'd been up since six. Her eyes were ringed by dark circles, and either a bruise or a hickey stuck out from beneath her shirt. He inspected it further. She'd definitely had a late night.

"$34.85." She droned, staring at some point over his shoulder. He paid and grabbed his cart. 

He got in the Impala, rubbing his eyes. A headache pounded at his skull, and he regretted the bottle of whiskey he'd consumed last night. But he'd at least had a reason. It was the anniversary of Sam's leaving. 

He watched a couple of punk kids for a minute, their green and red hair bright against the white of the grocery store.

He slowly backed out and left. 

XXXXX

Castiel leaned up against the wall of some building. He didn't know half of the places he was anymore. He put the cigarette to his lips and breathed in. Maz, beside him, nudged him and held up a phone.

"Snatched this off a college kid. Think that I'll get a good price." Max smelled like weed and body odor. 

"I think you're an idiot. It's an iPhone, what's it gonna do?" Phin leaned over Cas to Max. "I don't get iPhones. They're so small."

Seether played softly in the background, Max's stolen speakers lending an atmosphere to the place.

_You feed this disease, which you shelter underneath the scars, and dream of bitter themes...._

Castiel scoffed at both of them. "You're both idiots."

_Save me, even as you break me..._

"This song sucks. What's it even called?" Max laughed. Castiel checked. "Roses," he replied.

_Praise me, even as you hate me...._

They all turned to watch as a beautiful black car rolled by. Phin's cigarette fell out of his mouth. "1969 Chevy Impala," he whispered. Castiel stared at him. Phin never got amazed at anything.

"What's so great about the car?" Cas asked. Phin rolled his eyes.

"I have a slight obsession with cars. An Impala, those things are amazing." 

"Do you wanna steal it?" Max looked at Phin. Phin nodded, still looking starstruck. He stomped out his cigarette. They tailed the car, which seemed to be manned by a man of about twenty-five. Cas couldn't make out his features, just that he was a blond.

It went all around the town, the owner apparently just wanting a drive. Classic rock blasted from the speakers. Metallica, Queen, AC/DC, Asia, the list went on.

At last, he went to a bunker. Cas didn't have any knowledge of a bunker in Lebanon, but that just goes to show what happened when you never paid any attention. 

Cas crept into the bunker after he unlocked it. Phin and Max had long since left, muttering it was a "useless" endeavor. Cas had been more interested. Maybe he had cigarettes.  

The owner seemed to be cheerful, whistling as he put away stuff. At one point, Cas noticed that he had six bottles of Jack in his fridge, along with random foodstuffs.  

He went to a room off of a hallway, and music started to play. Shinedown. Cas recognized it. It was their latest album. 

The owner cursed. He stepped out into the hallway, and he spotted Cas.

"What the fuck?!" he looked like a deer in headlights.

"Hello." Cas waved. He knew he was a sight, with blue-tipped hair and tattoos on nearly every part of his body.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?"

"I just want cigarettes." Cas was a bit cocky, he knew, but the guy looked like he hadn't had much more than alcohol and fumes for the better part of a year. He was still built well, with light muscles. Not that he noticed.

"Why in the hell would you want cigarettes? I've only got Jack and beer. Also, you just saw me driving around and decided that hey, let's go into someone's place and sneak around and ask for cigarettes? That's just stupid." 

"Alright. But your car's nice." Cas was being a dick, he knew he was being a dick, and by god, he was going to be a dick just because that is what society and everyone else expected from people like him. Even people on the edge like him stayed away. 

"Thank you. Now get out." The guy pushed him, back toward the door. Cas, reacting to instinct, punched him in the face. Surprisingly, he didn't even flinch. Cas' hand started to hurt. The guy threw a punch back, and it hit Cas' throat. 

It was mayhem after that. They rolled around on the ground, fighting and kicking and punching, just like they were expected to do. The guy managed to slam Cas' head on the ground, and he blacked out.

XXXXX

Cas awoke in the dark. He fumbled around for a second, looking for some source of light, and encountered a light. He flicked it on, and it blinded him for a second. 

He patted his pockets, looking for his switchblade and pack of cigarettes. They were missing. The guy had been good. He got off the bed he was in and walked to the door. He paused for a second, looking for something to say. He had broken into a house.

He told himself:  _fuck it._ And walked down the hallway, shedding his shirt along the way. It was sticky, and anyway, as he said,  _fuck it._

The guy from before was whistling again. He could recognize the song: Bohemian Rhapsody. He rounded the corner and was assaulted with the sight of the guy flipping pancakes shirtless. At least they matched. The guy turned. He had one tattoo, which Cas knew to be an anti-possession symbol. He really had to stop calling him "the guy".

"So what's your name?" Cas asked. Well, at least it was forward. He leaned against the doorframe.

"Dean," came the reply. Dean sashayed his hips and brought him a stack of pancakes, drenched in maple syrup. Like, enough maple syrup that Cas was wondering if he was Canadian. It would be a suitable reply. 

Dean gave himself the last pancake and walked to a table. He was being remarkably chill for someone who had somebody break into his house. "So, since I gave you my name, why don't you give me yours."

"Castiel." Cas helped himself to the pancakes. They were light and fluffy, the perfect type. 

"So, Castiel," Dean swallowed a bite, "you never gave me an explanation. Why did you break in my house?" 

"Um..." Cas took the opportunity to gobble down his pancakes. "I wanted cigarettes."

Dean scowled. "We both know that's bullshit, why?"

"Because I just wanted to, okay?! Leave it!" Cas didn't realize that he was halfway to the door before Dean shouted, "Hey!"

Cas continued on, walking back to the bedroom he was in before flopping down. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was that Dean's eyes were green.

XXXXX

Dean finished off his pancakes and put his plate in the sink. 

Hepicked up the CD from before and put it in the machine. The now-familiar tunes started again, playing "Black Cadillac". He hummed along, washing the dishes, wondering where Castiel went. He mentally reviewed Castiel.

He had blue-tipped hair, which made it look like the ocean when he looked down. Since for some reason, Castiel was also shirtless, Dean had a full view of the tattoos. 

A pentagram on his left bicep. A mosaic of a house. When he turned, Dean saw two angel wings on his back, which were bruised and bloody and were tipped with gold. They started out dark blue and went lighter as they traveled down. Vines twined their way across Castiel's arms, and inside them was a songbird.

Castiel was sleeping, he figured, and he started to paint again, this time of Hell. He painted a man with hooks in his shoulders and blood in his shirt. He painted an angel, with a ratty trenchcoat and black wings, coming down to be a savior.

He lost track of time, focusing on painting and the music. He barely noticed a bedroom door opening and closing, bare feet padding down the hallway.

He jumped when Castiel said, "Nice rendition of Hell."

"Jesus!" Dean splattered paint all over himself. A paint can went across the floor, spreading crimson. 

"Nope, just me. But I've been told the resemblance is startling." Castiel picked up the can. "Berry Berry Nice to Meet You." He read off the name.

"Yep," Dean said, wiping off the paint. 

"So," Castiel said, "why are you painting Hell? Last I checked, people don't just come back from Hell."

"Well, I just thought it might be a good idea to paint." Dean unveiled a painting of two brothers, standing before a hole in the ground. The taller of the two was stepping back into the hole.

"What?" Castiel got closer, looking at the detail. The shorter was looking heartbroken, and the taller seemed to be trying to comfort the former. He tore the cover of another one. It was a blond man staring at the taller brother, an almost predatory look in his eyes.

"That's Lucifer," Dean said, stepping up beside him. He pointed to the tall man. "That guy's his true vessel, and Lucifer wants his body. But Sam-" He caught himself. "That guy is trying to trick him."

"Seems dangerous. Trying to trick Satan himself." Still, Castiel had to admit it was a great picture. The detail was meticulous, and it was realistic. Not many artists had that. 

"Yeah, but Lucifer's gonna be in the Cage." Dean pointed to a canvas, where the tall man was being burnt, his mouth open in a wide scream, his eyes shut tight. "That way, he can't get away. But the tall dude will be saved by an angel." He motioned to a painting of an angel in a trenchcoat, with blue eyes that shone with power.

"That angel looks a lot like me," Castiel noted. "And what the hell is that thing in his hands?" 

Dean's eyes started to shine. "A Molotov cocktail." 

"That's bizarre," Castiel said, interested. "Why is he holding that?"

"Because he's burning up Michael," Dean explained, gesturing toward a blond haired young man. "Michael's in this vessel when really his true vessel is the shorter brother." He motioned again toward the painting of the tall brother falling into a hole.

They continued to talk about the paintings, and Castiel admitted he used to draw. When Dean heard this, his eyes shone. "You did?"

Before Castiel could deny his artistry and complain, a blank sketchbook was being shoved into his hands along with a pencil. 

"What the fuck can I do with this?" Castiel asked.

"C'mon Cas," Dean implored, feeling familiar enough to give him a nickname.

"Fine, because you're not being an ass about it." Cas snatched up the pencil and started to draw. He drew Phin, his gray eyes flashing with mirth, the corners of his mouth up. He made Max, holding a phone, cigarette in his mouth. He drew the familiar lines of the back of a building. Trash littering the ground, and a stray cat scuttling away from the people.

"Holy shit." Cas didn't realize how close Dean had gotten until warm breath was spreading across the back of his neck. His skin prickled, and his scant clothes felt equally too big and too small. He turned, and he met Dean's eyes, which shone brightly at his sketch.

 


End file.
